“Won’t one of Serenity’s caretakers help you?”
She makes a face. “They used to, but the new management won’t allow it. Some sort of liability nonsense.”
“I’ll help you.”
She perks up. “Really? You’d do that for me?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then. Follow me. And excuse the mess.”
What mess? The house is about as immaculate as Kate Harrington, and just as well off. It reeks of the type of old money I’ve only seen on TV. White walls lined with original paintings giving off a Picasso-type feel. Hardwood floors burnished with lemon oil. Each piece of furniture a work of art. The only mess I can see is a New York Times flung open to the obituary page. A near-empty glass of red wine and a magnifying glass rest on its face. Kate takes note of my interest.
“My nightly ritual,” she says in a tired voice. “When you get to be my age, it’s far too often that friends and acquaintances end up in there. It really isn’t a blessing to live as long as I have.”
I glance at Kate. “Do you mind my asking your age?”
She smiles. “There was a time I would have slapped you for such an impertinent question. But now? Well, who cares? I’m all of eighty-three.”
“So you were born . . .”
“I was born on leap day in 1936.”
“Leap day? So, you only have a birthday every four years?”
“So they say. Gordon and I always made it quite the occasion. Nothing as frivolous as parties. We liked adventure, the two of us. One year we climbed Mount Kilimanjaro. Another we snuck into Cuba. We led quite an exciting life.”
I make my way to the grand piano, where a number of black-and-white photos sit. There I spy a gold-framed wedding photo of what I’m guessing is Kate and her man. She has the strikingly angular face she still carries to this day. And Gordon resembles a young Cary Grant. Handsome with the kind of wide and friendly smile that turns strangers into friends.
“We had a good marriage,” Kate says wistfully. “And I so depended on him. It takes everything in me to remember my husband for what he was and not the man he is today.”
There’s another animal groan from an interior room, and Kate’s gaze returns to the present and settles on me.
“You sure you’re up for this?” she asks.
“Of course. Why not?”
“It’s hard for me to look at him. I can’t imagine what a stranger thinks.”
“I’ll be fine.” I follow her to the interior of the villa, where the walls are shadowy and the lights have been dimmed. We step into a bedroom, and I’m nearly overcome by a musty, fetid stench. In the center of the room, surrounded by gleaming white equipment, sits a solitary hospital bed. Gordon rests on his side, looking less living human than long-dead corpse. A white sheet covers his thin body. A series of low moans escape from his mouth.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Kate calls. “I’ve brought Zach. He’s the nice man I’ve been telling you about that visits every now and then. He’s going to help me turn you tonight. Judy called in sick.” Gordon moans, louder this time.
I have to stop myself from quaking at the sight of the withered man, his face frozen in a scream of horror. His hands are curled into yellow claws, while tubes emerge from his throat and his side. Only his wheezing moans and the blink of his eyes offer a clue that he’s alive. “Is he in pain?” I whisper.
“I’m told he’s not. But he has to be moved every few hours or bedsores develop. And those can be brutally painful.”
“How do you turn him?” I ask, eyeing Kate’s frail body.
“He no longer weighs much, and this is the best hospital bed money can buy. We strap him in like this.” She pulls a strap across his shoulders and indicates I should do the same with his legs. “I used to be able to do this on my own, but it seems even the smallest task bothers my back these days.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.” I secure Gordon’s legs and wait. The stench in the room reminds me of the bloom of a hundred-year flower I saw once at an orchid show. A big, black, ugly flower over which visitors oohed and awed.
It’s not as bad as that, Tina whispers.
“Yes, it is.” I’m surprised that my wife has made an appearance. She usually hides when Kate is around. Not sure if that means she’s taken a liking to the woman or if the opposite is true.
“Tell me what to do,” I say in a too-loud voice, trying to mask Tina’s pesky whisper.
“Once he’s strapped in tight, pull on this.” She indicates a metal bar, and I apply pressure. The bed rumbles and lifts to one side, and with a quick flick of her hands, Kate turns Gordon onto his back. It doesn’t seem like the adjustment should be painful, but Gordon’s moan says otherwise.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Kate whispers.
I picture the man in the wedding portrait, so vibrant and alive. “What happened to him?” I ask.
“No need to whisper,” Kate says. She takes hold of one of Gordon’s frail hands and gives it a little squeeze. “Gordon likes to listen to conversations, don’t you, sweetheart?” Her gaze slips from Gordon to me. “I think he’s mostly gone. Resting in some eternal sleep. But a hospice nurse once told me that hearing is the last sense to go. So, I talk to him whenever I can. Maybe he’s there. Maybe he’s not. Honestly, for his sake, I hope he’s somewhere else.”
I nod, staring at the waxy face with the heavy-lidded eyes. “How long has it been since he was . . . ?”
“Normal?” She turns and plucks a framed photo of Gordon from a bookshelf and runs a crooked finger across the glass. He looks to be no more than forty, a trim, athletic man dressed in white tennis gear. “He was unusually healthy right up to his late seventies and so proud of that fact. Never once caught a cold or flu. And then out of the blue, he was paralyzed by a massive stroke. That was six years ago. He’s been in declining health ever since.” She gazes at me with liquid green eyes that glisten with forming tears. “It’s cruel, don’t you think? In a different time and place, he would’ve been allowed to pass into his next life with his dignity intact. But nowadays, our medical technology can keep a man alive even though he’s technically gone.”
I peer at the ropes that tether Gordon’s hands to the bed, and I have a sudden sensation that the walls are closing in. I can’t let this ever happen to me. “Didn’t he have a . . . ?” I fumble for my next words.
“Medical directive?”
“Yeah. That.”
“He never got around to signing one. But he had always been clear that he didn’t want any extraordinary methods used to keep him alive.”
“But that didn’t stop this from happening?”
“His boys intervened with the courts.”
“I remember you saying that. Do they ever help out?”
“Randall and Alfred? No. Never. In fact, they’ve only visited their father once in the past three years.”
“But the court listened to them, not you.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. It’s our own fault for being so arrogant about our health care that we didn’t have our directives in place. The thing is, I have more than enough money to provide the highest level of care for Gordon. Think of all the people that don’t.”
I nod, making a mental note to get my own directive in place.
“I do hope to make a difference in eldercare,” she continues. “Or at least to ease the suffering of a few. Our trust now designates that every penny of our estate will go to a local nonprofit that provides for hospice care for the indigent.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“Not kind. I’m just thankful for all I’ve been given, and I want to pass it on.”
“What about Gordon’s sons? They okay with being written out of the will?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Absolutely not. In fact, they’ve attempted to intervene by having the court declare me incompetent.”
“Well, you’re anything but that.�
��
“Exactly. They lost that battle, but it doesn’t mean they won’t come at me again. Money does terrible things to people.” Kate arranges the sheet so that Gordon is covered and then gives him a swift peck on the cheek. Then she picks up a needle and injects something into his IV. “There you go, sweetheart,” she says. “That will help you sleep through the night.” She nods at me, signaling we should go.
I turn to leave and then pause at the sight of a pink Post-it Note resting between a stash of prescription bottles. I bend down to see Gordon’s name scrawled across its face, but no date. I grab the note and wave it at Kate. “What’s this?”
She stiffens. “Just what it looks like. A piece of paper.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What else could it be?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
“Is it any of your business?”
“It might be.”
Her eyes narrow. “Let me have that. We’ll talk about it once we’re outside.” She tugs the note from my fingers and signals that I should leave the room. Once we’re back on the veranda, I turn to Kate. She seems smaller somehow, like she’s shriveled. Still, I speak as firmly as I can. “I want the truth,” I say. “Tell me what that pink note is about.”
She settles in her lounge chair with a groan. “Why don’t you top off our drinks? Better yet, toss them and make fresh ones.”
I stay on my feet, arms crossed. “I don’t have time for this. I just want answers.”
“Another ten minutes won’t matter.”
“I’m not so sure.”
She folds her arms and closes her eyes, relaxing with a sigh. She suddenly appears years older, her face further ravaged by time. “If you want answers to your question, you’ll humor me and share a drink.”
“All right,” I say, irritation blooming. I freshen our glasses with two-inch pours. “Here you go.”
“Thank you. Now sit, and I’ll answer your questions.”
I’m not in the mood to sit, but I need to know what Kate knows, and tonight might be my only chance. “Does the note have anything to do with something called the Goodnight Club?” I ask, settling into my chair.
Kate shifts a little uncomfortably and takes a sip of her drink. “Yes,” she says after a long pause. “It most certainly does.”
Seven
Thursday, September 26
There’s a pounding at my door drilling holes through my head. “Go away,” I moan into my pillow, but the pounding won’t stop.
“Zach! I know you’re in there. I have to speak with you. I need you to open up.”
It’s Ruth, Tina says.
“I know who it is.”
Just ignore her. You need your sleep.
“She probably wants my info on the Goodnight Club.”
Your message said you’d meet her before the start of your shift.
“Maybe she can’t wait.”
That’s her problem, not yours.
I glance at the clock. Hell. Tina is right. It’s two in the afternoon, and I’ve gotten only a few hours of sleep. I sit up, and the room spins like a drunken top. I think back on the drinks with Kate. Was there one? Two? Maybe three? But then I recall the story she told me, and I stagger to my feet.
The pounding begins again. “Coming!” I yell. I throw on a clean T-shirt, brush my teeth, and splash cold water on my face. I glance into the mirror. At least I don’t look as bad as I feel. Sure, my face is carved by the ravines that took hold in my early forties. And my eyes are partially hidden under the shadows of my brows. But I’ve lost some of the puffiness and fatigue that have plagued me these past few years. Seems things have gone from worse to bad.
“Zach!”
Better hurry, Tina hisses, messing with my mood.
“You stay out of this,” I reply, getting ready to slap my head.
I’ll be good, she says in a fading voice. I won’t say another word. I promise.
I slip on my ancient Tevas and hurry to the front door. Despite the angry sound of Ruth’s voice, I throw it open with a smile. Can’t wait to tell her I might’ve cracked the case. I open my mouth to greet her, but her sour look shuts me down.
“I can’t believe this, Zach,” she says, rushing in.
“What? What is it? Has something happened to Adam?”
“You tell me,” she snaps. “You know more about my son than I do.”
I shut the door and turn to face Ruth. She’s dressed in her typical work attire—black pants, matching jacket, a pink shirt to lighten the dark. Sensible flats to match her attire. She raises her fists like a boxer getting ready to punch. “How could you?” She stamps her foot, and the floor shakes.
Guilt surges through my gut. Did she find out about my drinking on the job?
“I can explain,” I say.
“Can you?”
“Yes. I mean, I know I shouldn’t share drinks with guests, but Kate is so damn lonely, and . . . and,” I continue foolishly, “and it ended up being a good thing, because I got the information we need.”
“That’s not what I’m here for,” Ruth says, her eyes gone hard as flint. “What I want to know is why? Why’d you do it? How could you betray us like this?”
Betray? For a moment I have no idea what she’s talking about, and then my stomach drops. “Is this about Nurse Milo?”
She raises her voice so loud it reverberates through the far corners of the house. “Of course it is. What else would I be talking about?”
I stare at her for a moment, my mind churning like Niagara Falls. Damn. Did Adam say something to Javier? If so, I’m up shit creek.
“I can explain,” I say.
“So it’s true.”
“In a way, but . . .”
The strength seems to slip out of Ruth, and she collapses onto my couch. “But what?”
I don’t answer her right away. I’m not thinking too straight.
She looks up, her face flushed. “Go ahead, damn it. Give me an explanation that would help me understand why you of all people would tell my son to lie.”
“I didn’t tell him,” I try to organize my thoughts. Does she know about the drugs? “He asked me for my help, and I agreed.”
“Help? What kind of help?”
“He stumbled into a situation, and he wasn’t sure what to do.”
“You mean he found Milo’s dead body.”
“Yes.”
“So you told him to lie.”
“Not exactly . . .”
“Not exactly?” She pounds her hands on her knees. “My God, Zach. This is no joke. This is a murder investigation. You of all people should know the danger you’ve put him in.”
“I’ve put him in?” That stops me for a moment. She obviously doesn’t know about the Adderall, and it takes everything in me not to tell her.
She swipes at the sweat on her brow. “You were supposed to help him straighten out, not teach him how to lie.”
“I didn’t tell him to lie. Not exactly.” Now I’m getting pissed.
“That’s the second time you’ve said that. What does not exactly mean?”
“If you calm down, I’ll tell you.”
“How can I calm down?” She buries her head in her hands. “I never should’ve allowed him to work at Serenity Acres. I was an idiot to let you convince me.”
I take a deep breath and grip my hands to keep myself from lashing out. “Why don’t you back up and tell me what’s happened. Tell me what you heard, and we can discuss this calmly.”
She eyes me like I’m crazy. “Calmly?”
“I mean . . . just tell me what happened? Did the police find out?”
It takes her a moment to answer, and then she shakes her head hard. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I was having a bad day, so I ran home for lunch, and Adam was in the backyard talking to Ember on his cell. He sounded upset, so I did what any mom would do and listened in. I heard him say something about Nurse Milo, so when he got off, I confronted him, and he to
ld me everything, Zach. Everything!”
“Hell.” I sink down next to her. “He told Ember?” There’s a sizzling in my gut, an old ulcer coming to life.
“Who cares? What matters is that you told him to lie, Zach. To lie!” She pounds her knees again.
“That’s not how it went down . . .”
“It’s not? Then tell me your version.”
“Well . . .” I think back. In hindsight it does seem like a stupid move, but what else could I have done? “It was the only way to protect Adam. At least I thought so at the time.”
“Well, that was beyond irresponsible.”
Tell her about the drugs, Tina says.
I want to. I really do. But that’s just anger speaking. “No,” I reply and continue on. “Adam happened to park in the wrong place that morning and found Nurse Milo, already dead. He was worried about the implications. Thought it might mess up his court case. And honestly, with his background, I thought it might mess him up too. So, I agreed we could keep it our secret. I didn’t think . . .”
“Of course you didn’t think. If you had, you would have insisted on the truth. What’s going to happen when they find out he’s lied?”
“They won’t.”
“No?” Ruth gets to her feet and begins to pace. “You really think so? Because he’s scared, Zach. He told me so. That’s why he called Ember.”
“What’s he scared of?”
“He thinks Finn is on to him.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Finn questioned him again this morning.”
“Were the police involved?”
“I don’t think so.”
I work my hands together. “Go on. What did he say?”
“He told Finn it was dark and he didn’t see the body, but Finn said he didn’t believe him. And then he asked Adam about us.”
I give my knee a rub. “What about us?”
“He wanted to know how long we’d been neighbors . . . if the two of us were friends.”
“He figured that out?”
“It wouldn’t take a genius, just a glance at our files.” Ruth stops pacing and turns to me. “The thing is, if Finn is snooping around, it won’t take him long to uncover Adam’s history of drug abuse. Add in the felony assault accusation and the growing rumors that Milo was a dealer and . . . oh my God, you have to understand this looks so very bad.”
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